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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2010 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/pastimepoemsOOrore 



Fetstinje: ^ F©sms. 



BY 

DAVID rore:r. 






I 



^:> 






COPYRIGHT 

1892. 



BURLINGTON, lA. 

RUHDETTE CO.VIl'ANY. 

1802. 



PREFACE. 



A few copies of these little poems have been 
printed for distribution among intimate friends, as a 
memorial of the author's eighty-sixth birthday, occur- 
ring on the 12th of May, 1892. 

They are the ex-pression of passing thoughts, 
jotted down as a recreation in the intervals of a busy 
life, while on railway trains or during half-hours of 
leisure. 

Thinking they will be interesting to, and appre- 
ciated by, the faithful friends who are still remaining, 
these poems have been prepared for publication in 
grateful recollection of a happy past and in memory 
of a beloved father. 

Rock Haven, 

March 28th, 1892. 



CONTENTS. 



To Old Age 9 

In Mellow Wood 11 

I Think of Thee 13 

The Empty Nest 15 

To My Old Green Bag - - - - - 17 

If I Were a Boy Again 19 

The Coming of the Birds 21 

The Sea 25 

Song of the Gypsies 27 

My Native Home - 29 

It's Lonely O'er the Sea . - . . 33 

The Wake-robin and the Clover - - - 35 

From Sea to Sea 37 

The Coming Storm - - - - . 39 

The World Cares Not for Me - - - 41 

Shifting Scenes 43 

Land of the White Birch Tree - - - - 45 

Custer's Band ...... 47 

Two Ancient Misses 49 

The World Will Still Go On - - . 51 

Guns Afar 53 



The Fairy Train 55 

Storm at Sea - - - - - - - 57 

Now and Then 59 

To the Ohio ------- 61 

The Phantom Ship . - - . . 63 

The Time to Die - - - - - - 65 

My Home Is In the Prairie Land - - - 67 

Shovel It On to Me Lightly - - - - 69 

I Crave Not the Smile 71 

What I Love 73 

Christmas ------- 75 



TO OLD AGE. 

Oh, tell me not, thou hast forgot 

The childhood home and humble cot, 

Whose peaceful waters flow 

By rock and glen, where children then 

We played, nor dreamed we'd e'er be men, 

Or old or sordid grow. 

More bright and fair the sunshine there, 

More soft the moon-lit, balmy air, 

More sparkling there the dew; 

When we were young, and romped and swung 

In flowery grove where birdies sung. 

And pretty brown mosses grew. 

Though many years of hopes, and fears. 

And happiness, and grief, and tears, 

Are resting on our head; 

And swiftly fly the moments by. 

Till soon must come the hour to die, 

And nestle with the dead; 

And brighter landscapes, far away. 

Are sighted through the mist and spray, 

Approaching nearer, day by day. 

As on the voyage we go; 

The unclouded soul may cast behind, 

A lingering look of memory kind, 

To where, in childhood's home enshrined, 

The pretty brown mosses grow. 

1877. 

9 



IN MELLOW WOOD. 

In mellow wood it's good to be, 

When the early buds are blowing, 
When little streams from fetters free. 
All murmur their soft minstrelsy. 
And the flocks and herds are lowing. 

In mellow wood it's good to be. 

When the merry birds are singing, 
And the noisy thrush, with clamorous glee, 
On topmost twig of the tallest tree, 
Rocks to and fro in swinging. 

There, when the flowers are bright and gay 

And the world with life is teeming, 
Oh, then, oh, then, in a quiet way, 
'Tis good with those we love to stray 
When the summer sun is beaming. 



I THINK OF THEE. 

I think of thee when thou dost sleep, 
Where angels bright their vigils keep, 
And wish me then an angel fair, 
That I might bow and worship there. 
I think of thee, thou dearest one, 
Ere earth, or sea, the morning sun 
Hath kissed, or seen, or smiled upon. 
And see thee, then, more fair and bright 
Than visions of the coming light. 



13 



THK i:mpty nest. 

See, in the wild and lonely wood, 
Where once a settler's cottage stood, 
The leafless bough and empty nest, 
Deserted home, where used to rest 
The tender young, now fledged and flown. 
No longer to each other known. 
The parent birds, in happy mood, 
Watched o'er and fed their pretty brood, 
Till on one bright and lovely day. 
When skies were blue and skies were grey. 
And all the fields with flowers were gay, 
They wandered off and flew away. 
Destined to go, not called or sent. 
But listless why, or where, they went. 



15 



TO MY OLD GRKKN BAG. 

This old green bag, for many a year 
It's owner's hopes has served to cheer, 
If battling for the wrong or right. 
It led the bold, forensic fight; 
Nor could it, or its owner, know 
Which one was not, and which was so. 
The justice of the client's cause 
Can tested be but by the laws. 
If right or wrong, we may not know 
Till court and jury find it so. 
Nov., 1873. 



17 



IF I WERK A BOY AGAIN. 

Oh, if I were a boy again, 

I'd mind no wind, nor storm, nor rain, 

But roam the country far and wide. 

Or boldly climb the mountain side. 

And where the wild deer makes its bed. 

When tired, I'd lay my weary head; 

And rest me there among the clouds, 

Far from the noise of maddening crowds, 

And toil, and care, and anxious strife, 

And rivalries of busy life; 

There sweetly sleep, with pleasant dreams 

Of rippling brooks and gurgling streams. 

Rockbridge Alum Springs, 
Sept. 4th, 1876. 



19 



THE COMING OF THE BIRDS. 

The lonely cry, 

As onward fly, 
The feathered pipers passing by. 
Tells of the flight of the birds begun, 
Northward, as northward comes the sun. 

Passing along, 

Crong, crong, 
Wherever is heard their lonely song. 
Day and night, they're on the wing. 
Heralds of returning spring, 
An eager, sw4ft, and noisy throng, 
Bringing the joyous news along — 

Crong, crong, 

Crong, crong, 
Wherever is heard their homely song. 
The welcome sound goes o'er the land; 
The earth puts off its icy band. 
The little rills begin to flow. 
Softly murmuring as they go 

Towards the sea. 

In merry glee. 
Rejoicing to again be free. 
They woo each other on the way. 
As o'er the sparkling sands they play. 



21 



And meet and mingle down below, 
Where birchen trees and willow vS grow; 
'Tis thUvS the pretty streamlets wed, 
And go together in one bed. 

The twittering sound, 
Of blue-birds round. 
Upon the porches, trees, and ground. 
And robins chirping in the yard. 
Just from the country of the pard. 
And hail the house, with much ado. 
Their old acquaintance to renew; 
Peeping about. 
Both in and out, 
To see what folks are still about. 
Now lulling showers of gentle rain. 
Descend upon the earth again; 
And thunders peal, and lightnings glow. 
And swelling buds begin to blow. 
And robes of green the trees, and lawn. 
And hills, and fields, and woods, put on; 
While in the park. 
From dawn till dark. 
Now vsweetly sings the meadow lark. 
Expanding flowers perfume the air; 
And two and two begin to pair 
The butterflies, of color rare. 
And all >the little birdie host. 
Like drifting blossoms, landward tossed. 



22 



From some soft, southern, balmy home, 

In undulating billows come; 

And chirp and sing, 
The new-born spring, 

And hope and joy and gladness bring. 

Spring of 
1876. 



23 



THE si:a. 

I stood upon the strand, 

And I looked upon the sea; 

And the sea seemed to say, 

Through the mist and the spray: 

Come away from the land. 

From the land come away, to me; 

Oh, come upon the deep. 

Where the mermaids sleep 

And the wild billows play; 

Come and rest upon the crest 

Of the billowy breast 

Of old ocean to-day; 

Come and ride upon the tide 

With a Nereid bride. 

The waves of the sea for a pillow. 

And revel in the deep. 

Where the fairies sleep, 

And ride on the mountain billow. 



Narragansett, 
Aug., 1876. 



25 



SONG OF THE GYPSIES. 

In sylvan shade our camp is made, 
Beside the sparkling fountain, 

In wooded vale, or hill, or dale. 
Or on the lofty mountain. 

No fealty or faith we owe. 

To church or state where'er we go; 

Por all we see to us is free 

As light, and air, and thought, can be. 

No sons of toil, to till the soil. 

Or stoop to servile labor; 
Where e'er we roam, we find a home. 

Hard by some wealthy neighbor. 
So everywhere, we come and go, 
And freely take our own, you know; 
For all we see to us is free 
As light, and air, and thought, can be. 

Where mistletoe and holly grow, 

'Midst ever blooming trees and flowers, 

We dance and sing and chaplets bring, 
And thus enjoy the fleeting hours 

With those we love, in royal state; 

Then with the birds we emigrate. 

For all we see to us is free 

As light, and air, and thought, can be. 

27 



1875. 



Thus, as we may, we stroll and stray 
Where e'er we have a mind to. 

And pass away each happy day 
Just as we are inclined to; 

And fortunes tell, but never make, 

Nor have we need the care to take; 

For all we see to us is free 

As light, and air, and thought, can be. 



28 



MY NATIVE HOME. 

My native home, my native home, 
'Tis there I used to romp and roam, 
More happy in my native home 
Than king upon his royal throne. 
Though dearer ties now bind my heart. 
And love-lit eyes their soul impart; 
Yet oft, in thought, I fly away, 
And laugh and talk, and romp and play, 
With those I loved in childhood's day; 
And over hills and valleys roam. 
And wander 'round my native home. 
My native home, my native home, 
'Tis there I used to romp and roam, 
More happy in my native home. 
Than king upon his royal throne. 

The rose, the wild forget-me-not. 
The trees, the brook, the homely cot. 
Where fortune cast my humble lot, 
Are dearer far to me than fame. 
Or wealth, or all but honest name. 
I've looked upon the mighty deep, 
And seen the rolling billows sweep 
The sea-worn beach, and disappear, 
As silent as the dying year. 
Yet tame and cold they seemed to me 



29 



Beside the mountains, bold and free, 
Whose rugged sides, and lofty dome. 
Looked down upon my native home. 
My native home, my native home, 
'Tis there I used to romp and roam, 
More happy in my native home. 
Than king upon his royal throne. 

The ivied cliff, the river side, 
Where down the hill I used to slide, 
Though childish sports like these, to me, 
A source of joy no longer be, 
To memory are dearer far 
Than other cliffs and rivers are; 
Yet not for aught in them alone, 
But only as my native home. 
I've gazed upon the boundless sea. 
Of prairie, where no rock or tree. 
Or aught but flowers and grasses green. 
In all the world around were seen — • 
Sweet emblem of eternal rest. 
Where dwell the spirits of the blest; 
Yet mingled with the scene would come. 
Fond visions of my native home. 
My native home, my native home, 
'Tis there I used to romp and roam. 
More happy in my native home. 
Than king upon his royal throne. 

30 



And I have stemmed the turbid breast 
Of the great river of the west, 
From where the fig and orange line 
The borders of old Neptune's shrine, 
To yonder far off northern plains 
Where the gloomy Ice-king reigns, 
And yet have found no place, oh none, 
So lovely as my native home. 
Far from the scenes of toil and care. 
Where cities, towns, and commerce are, 
I've slept upon the open ground. 
With none but red men all around, 
A mossy couch on which to lie, 
My covering the star-lit sky, 
And dreamed that I again was young. 
And nestling in my native home. 
My native home, my native home, 
'Tis there I used to romp and roam; 
More happy in my native home. 
Than king upon his royal throne. 

Thouo-h drifted down the tide of life. 

On the rough sea of worldly strife. 

Till more than three score years and three. 

Have passed between the grave and me; 

Yet oft I've cast a look behind. 

Where friends of old so dear and kind. 

With welcome words still bid me come. 



31 



And greet them in my native home. 
My native home, my native home, 
'Tis there I used to romp and roam; 
More happy in my native home. 
Than king upon his royal throne. 

1868. 



32 



IT'S LONKLY O'ER THE SEA. 

It's lonely o'er the sea to-day, 
It's lonely o'er the sea. 

No rushing surf or bounding spray; 

No shipping in the far away; 

No billows by the wind set free, 

But all is still as still can be. 
It's lonely o'er the sea. 

Bass Rock, 
July 22, 1882. 



33 



THE WAKE-ROBIN AND THE CLOVER. 

Wake-robin, wake, 

Said the three-leaved ch:)ver, 
The frost ivS all out 

And the winter is over. 
Wake-robin, wake. 

The spring- time is coming- 
In woodland and brake. 

The pheasants are drumming^. 
Wake-robin, wake. 

The g-rasses are spring-ing. 
The meadows are green, 

And the thrushes are singing. 
Wake -robin, wake. 

From under your cover, 
Peep out at 3^our neighbor, 

The three leaved clover. 
Then Wake-robin thrust out 

His head with much grace. 
And there the two trilexes 

Stood face to face. 
The three leaved clover. 

Then bowed in the breeze. 
As much as to say — 

My respects, if you please. 



35 



PROM SEA TO SEA. 

Day and night the trains are running 

O'er the mountains, o'er the plain, 
Going some and others coming 

From sea to sea, and back again. 
Where the red man used to wander. 

Boldly in his native pride; 
Where he fought for scalps and plunder, 

Where he gently wooed his bride; 
Day and night the trains are running 

O'er the mountains, o'er the plain. 
Going some and others coming 

From sea to sea and back again. 

Where the antelope and bison. 

Where the marmot used to dwell, 
Where the wild goat leaped on high from 

Mountain peak to mossy dell; 
Day and night the trains are running 

O'er the mountain, o'er the plain: 
Going some and others coming 

From sea to sea, and back again. 
There the engine like a comet 

Speeds along mid snow and sleet, 
A snake-like body trailing from it. 

Gliding: onward without feet. - 



37 



THE COMING STORM. 

No mortal eye can see or find 

The motive power that moves behind 

The coming storm; 
Nor still yet greater power ahead, 
All silent as the silent dead, 

And void of form; 
The vacuum created by 
The heated air, ascending high 

As on it comes. 
On, on, yet on with gathering speed. 
O'er desolated field and mead, 

And prostrate homes. 
Niagara of almighty power 
And whirling wind, and deafening shower 

On sea or land; 
Thy path is strewn with gloom and death, 
Before Thine all devouring breath, 

No thing can stand. 
In reverent awe I bow to Thee, 
And at Thine altar bow the knee, 

Thou mighty one. 
And ask that when life's storms are past, 
I may be sheltered at the last, 

By Thy dear Son. 

June, 1877. 



Jl. 



THE WORLD CARi:s NOT FOR ME:. 

I've cared for the cause of the rich and the poor, 

For the cause of the bond and the free, 
And loosened the chains the innocent wore, 
And opened the bars of their prison door, 
But the world cares not for me. 

I've struggled along through a life of toil. 

As busy as the busiest bee. 
And ploughed and sowed and reaped the soil. 
To every trust proved true and loyal. 

Yet the world cares not for me. 

But a dear little world there is of my own; 

It's under the old roof -tree; 
I'm happier there than a king on his throne, 
For those and the trees, that I love there have grown, 

And that little world cares for me. 

Oct., 1875. 



41 



1877, 



SHIFTING SCENES. 

As weeds upon a troubled bay, 

All tossed about from day to day, 

Now landward borne, now borne away 

To sea-ward, from the peaceful shore, 

Again to reach the land no more; 

Or little clouds before the sky. 

Wafted o'er the mountains high. 

Shadows casting, passing by. 

All pure, and beautiful and bright, 

Then gone forever, out of sight; 

Or little birdies on the wing, 

That flutter, perch and chirp and sing. 

And cheerful strains of music bring. 

Around the woodman's cottage door. 

Then disappear forevermore; 

Thus, even thus, the hopes and fears 

Of early youth and childhood's cares 

And struggles of our riper years. 

Pass off as weeds upon the sea. 

Or mountain mists b}^ winds set free. 



43 



LAND OF THK WHITE BIRCH TREK. 

Here, in the land of the white birch tree, 
Dear child, I pen these lines to thee. 
Here, where the red man built his tent. 

When his home was wild and free; 
His time in chasing the wild deer spent. 
He went and he came, he came and he went. 

And wild as the land was he. 
For him the face of the wilderness smiled. 
The quiver and bow his hours beguiled, 
And the wigwam sheltered his wife and child, 

Beneath the white birch tree. 
Aug-., 1874. 



45 



CUSTKR'S BAND. 

Where Big-horn Mountain rears its head, 

And rolls the Rose-bud River, 
Unburied lie the gallant dead, 
The hero band that Custer led, 

But their names shall live forever. 
Though cowards sneer with envious hate, 

At their wild deeds of glory. 
Brave hearts those deeds will consecrate, 
And honest fame perpetuate. 

In history, song, and story. 

July, 1876. 



47 



TWO ANCIENT MISSKS. 

I know two ancient misses, 

Who ever onward go, 
From a cold and rigid northern clime 
Through a land of wheat, and corn, and wine 
To the southern sea, where the fig and the lime, 

And the golden orange grow. 

In graceful curves they wind about, 
Upon their long and lonely route, 

Among the beauteous hills; 
They never cease their onward step. 
Though day and night they are dripping wet, 
And oft with sleet and snow beset. 

And sometimes with the chills. 

The one is a romping, dark brunette, 
As fickle and wild as any coquette; 
She rolls along by the western plains, 
And changes her bed every time it rains. 
Witching as any dark-eyed houri, 
Thou romping, wild brunette, Missouri. 

The other is placid, mild and fair. 
With a gentle, sylph-like, quiet air. 
And voice as sweet as the soft guitar. 
She glides among the meadows and parks. 
Where naiads play seolian harps. 



49 



Nor ever goes by fits and starts. 
No fickle coquette of the city, 
Thou gentle, constant Mississippi. 

I love the wild and dark brunette. 

Although she is a gay coquette: 

Her, too, I love of quiet air. 

Because she's gentle, true and fair. 

The land of my home, on the east and the west, 

E)mbraced by these, is doubly blest: 

'Tis hard to tell which I love best. 

1872. ' 



50- 



, THE WORLD WILL STILL GO ON. 

When all forg-otten, we are gone, 
This busy world will still go on, 

As now when we are here; 
And seasons come and seasons go 
With summer's sun and winter's snow 

In each succeeding year. 
The sun and moon and stars will shine, 
Obedient to the Voice Divine, 

Kach passing day and night; 
As when the great command was given. 
Let there on earth be light from heaven, 

And there on earth was light. 
Flowers shall bud, and blow, and bloom 
And droop, for others to make room 

As in the days we see: 
Mankind will live, and toil, and die. 
And then in death forgotten lie. 

Ah, such is destiny. 
And falling leaves, by autumn's blast. 
Still o'er the pilgrim's way be cast, 

To soothe the weary breast. 
Of lifelong wanderers from their birth. 
Returning now to Mother Karth, 

To find a place of rest. 
July, 1876. 



SI 



GUNS AFAR. 

I hear the sound of guns afar, 
Like pulses on the trembling air, 
Dread messengers of civil war. 
Convulsive throbs of freedom's death, 
Throes of a nation's dying breath. 
Though feeble now and far away 
May nearer come, as goes the day. 
Till all the land be made to feel 
The force of powder, lead and steel. 
And martial hosts to battle rush. 
Their own once peaceful homes to crush; 
While babes in terror hug the breast. 
And old men on their crutches rest. 
To catch the news of war's alarms, 
And youth and manhood fly to arms, 
Impelled by force of party hate, 
A holocaust of death to make. 
The foremost nation of the world 
By faction, to destruction hurled. 
Hissed on by those who know no right, 
But for the spoils of office fight. 



53 



THE FAIRY TRAIN. 

Weirdly rang the engine bell, 

And sliowers of sparks to the leeward fell, 

More grand and wild than pen can tell. 

And the whistle blew, 

As onward flew. 
The fairy train with its elfin crew. 

Like diamonds bright. 

In robes of light, 
The rocks, and the trees, and the hills, were white, 
And the rocks, and the trees, and the hills, went back. 
As the fairy train flew o'er the track. 

Through sleet and snow, 

Away they go. 
They came from (somewhere) down below. 
To the fairy land they are bound I trow. 

The fireman blows, 

From his mouth and his nose, 
A stream of fire as he onward goes, 
And he laughs and grins at the rain and the sleet, 
And stirs up the fire with his brazen feet. 

No moon or star. 

Or comet rare, 
Lights up the way, but the head-light's glare 
With a sickly hue from the hills and the plain. 
Is reflected back on the ghostly train. 

Jan., 1873. 

55 



STORM AT SKA. 

Three little boats in the inner bay, 
Three little ships in the offing lay, 
Distant sails away, far away; 
Specks of light on the ocean bright 
Dancing along in the mist and spray: 
Swelling sheets of canvas spread, 
O'er the weary mariner's head, 
Ploughing old Neptune's watery bed, 
Everywhere, far and near. 
Before the gathering winds appear. 
The angry storm-king dips his wings. 
Into the sea, and darkness brino-s; 
Then o'er the face of waters 'round, 
O'er the rocks and o'er the ground 
Comes the fog-horn's warning sound. 
To seaward stand, keep off the land. 
Death and destruction here abound. 
Aug., 1876. 



57 



NOW AND THEN. 

Time was when midnight in the land, 
Was silent as a sea of sand. 
Morpheus reigned, the people slept, 
Somnus alone his vigils kept. 
Then there was rest. 
With quietude the the world was blest. 
No lumbering cars, or lightning train 
Disturbed the quiet of the plain; 
No rushing throng or anxious horde, 
Were startled by the midnight cry 

Of "All aboard." 
No messenger that never tires 
Was passing o'er the silent wires. 
Now all is changed, the world's deranged; 
No time for rest, no time for play. 
But toil all night and toil all day. 
The noise and tumult make one sad. 
Things look as if mankind were mad. 
Fortunes to make, or break, or mend. 
All means are right that gain that end; 
But oh, the care, the woe, the pain 
The wear and tear and greed of gain. 

Of such a life. 
A hurricane 

Of human strife. 



59 



Its blight is felt, not here alone 
But printed on the life to come: 
The sad effect we clearly trace 
And read it in each care-worn face: 
As plainly as if in a book, 
We see it in the hungry look, 
The wrinkled brow, the pallid cheek, 
The chin and nose that almost meet. 
The anxious mien where e'er we go. 
Of people rushing to and fro. 
A thirst for wealth, or show or fame, 
No failing health, or sense of shame, 
Nor fear of death can overcome. 
But out of breath, still onward run. 
The prize to win, the race to save. 
Until they tumble in the grave. 



60 



TO THK OHIO. 

(The beautiful river of the French.) 

DEDICATED TO MRS. C V . 

Beautiful river, 

Roll onward forever, 
Forever roll on in the land of the free; 

From your crystalline fountains 

High up in the mountains, 
Roll on, roll on, toward the far distant sea. 

The bow and the quiver 

Have left you forever. 
Your red men have ceased to be. 

Yet fresh from the rills 

Of the mountains and hills. 
You are still rolling- on towards the far distant sea. 

No privileged orders 

Look down on your borders. 
Nor castle or fortress, your commerce is free. 
With fair freedom blest, are your sons and your 

daughters. 
Who drink from your bosom your life-giving waters, 
As onward you roll toward the far distant sea. 

Then — beautiful river. 

Roll onward forever, 



6i 



Forever roll on, in the land of the free, 

From your own crystal fountains 
Hi<j;-h up in the mountains. 

Roll on, roll on, toward the far distant sea. 

Xmas, 1870. 



62 



THK PHANTOM SHIP. 

A fog came up from the sea one day, 

And covered with darkness the face of the bay, 

And a phamtom ship with a spectre crew, 

Came in with the fog as the darkness grew. 

And the fog-bell rang, and the fog-horn blew. 

She seemed to have come close up to the shore, 

Where never a ship had ventured before. 

Just where she lay, no soul could tell. 

Though the sound of her whistle and clang of her bell. 

All day on the ears of the people fell. 

It came from the rocky reef and strand 

Right out of the breakers, so near the land, 

Yet nought could be seen of the ship or crew, 

Though her bell rang on, and her whistle still blew; 

Then the fog rose up and all was fair, 

And the mythical ship was no longer there. 

With the mist it had vanished and gone with the air. 

It had vanished and gone, but no one knew where. 

To where? to where? no one knew where. 

Aug., 1881. 



THE) TIMK TO DID. 

In autumn is the time to die, 

And rest beneath the mellow sky; 

Within the warm and silent ground, 

Where friendly brownies hover 'round. 

And shadows thrown from clouds on high, 

Like waves of time are passing by, 

Without a murmur or a sigh, 

Where fallen leaves of summer lie. 

Without a rustle or a sound 

And little birds are homeward bound; 

All songless now in sombre mood. 

Departing with their trustful brood, 

To far off lands to them unknown. 

Where all the year, fresh flowers are grown. 

1880. 



65 



MY HOME IS IN THE PRAIRIE LAND. 

When first it was my lot to come, 
A stripling from my mountain home, 
To these then western wilds — I said. 
That living, dying and when dead, 
By boundless plains and rivers grand. 
My home is in the prairie land. 
The prairie land, as fresh and free. 
As zephyrs from a new born sea. 

Primeval land of birds, and flowers, 
Where light and shade and genial showers, 
Over the grassy billows play. 
Like phantoms of a summer's day; 
While red men turn their footsteps back. 
Upon the sluggard bison's track. 
There, where the empty lodges stand, 
My home is in the prairie land. 
The prairie land as fresh and free. 
As zephyrs from a new born sea. 

Near fifty years of time have fled. 
Since here I made my youthful bed; 
The birds are yet, but where alas 
The wild deer, flowers and prairie grass. 
These ancient tenants of the plain 
No longer drink the summer rain. 

67 



And yet, beside the rivers grand, 
My home is in the prairie land. 
The prairie land as fresh and free, 
As zephyrs from a new born sea. 

1873. 



68 



SHOVKL IT ON TO MK LIGHTLY. 

Shovel it on to me lightly, 

Shovel it gently and slow, 
Nor ever once think of me slightly. 

As you cover me up down below. 
When the dew on the mountain is falling, 

And the lone whip-poor-will to its mate. 
By the echoing grotto is calling. 

O'er hillside and valley and brake, 
And glimmering stars are all shining 

On the dew-drops so sparkling and bright. 
And the pale, lonely moon is declining. 

In the calm, silent moments of night. 
Then shovel it on to me lightly. 

Shovel it gently and slow, 
Let none who have thought of me slightly, 

Cast a look where I slumber below. 



June, 1875. 



69 



I CRAVE NOT THK SMILE. 

I crave not the smile 

And I fear not the hate, 
Of the base or the vile, 

Of the rich or the great; 
But grant me, Oh Lord, 

That the innocent poor. 
May lay not a w^ord 

Of complaint at my door. 



WHAT I LOVE. 

I love the mountain crag, 

And the foaming-, crystal, stream, 

Where shadows leap 

From peak to peak. 
And the waters rush between. 
I love the pelting storm. 
And the wintry sleet and snow, 

When fierce, and swift, 

From mountain cliff, 
The howling tempests blow. 
I love the early morn, 
The dewy dawn of day, 

When flocks and herds, 

And summer birds 
Their daily matins pay. 
I love the opening buds, 
And the tender flowers of spring, 

When the violet blows, 

By the budding rose. 
And the birds begin to sing. 
I love the summer's glow, 
When the sky is blue and fair, 

And the sunbeams play 

In the heat of the day. 
Like fairies in the air. 



I love the peaceful fields, 
The sheltered, quiet nook, 

The golden sere 

Of the waning- year, 
And the brown wood by the brook. 
But a soft and'sombre winter's day, 
When the sun is veiled, and the sky is grey, 

And the wind is still 

As a frozen rill. 
And the clouds come down. 
Almost to the ground, 
As if to wrap one all around. 
And all things seem to be at rest, 
Is the very day that I love best. 
Yet more than all of these, 
I love the form divine, 

Whose gentle feet. 

Make haste to greet 
The anxious steps of mine. 



74 



CHRISTMAS. 

The Yule logs glow 
Upon the hearth, 
While robes of snow 
The silent earth 
Bedeck, to hail a Saviour's birth; 
Then joyous be the hour that's here, 
Por Christmas comes but once a year. 

Stir up the fire, 

Uncork the wine. 
And strike the lyre. 
And peal the chime. 
And merry be and take good cheer, 
For Christmas comes but once a year. 

Give presents now. 
And now bestow, 
Under the bough 
Of mistletoe. 
Kisses on those we hold most dear, 
For Christmas comes but once a year. 

Christmas, 1876. 



75 




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